


For the Greater Good

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Kissing, Godric's Hollow, Hogwarts, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Panic, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, The Resurrection Stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2881172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The many achievements of Albus Dumbledore are widely known throughout the Wizarding community. Chiefly among the most noted accomplishments, his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald is detailed throughout countless history texts. However, none of them know full extent of the tale. Only Albus himself knows what really happened on the fateful day when Grindelwald's reign of terror was ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

('m aware that the first chapter is quite slow-paced. It won't all be like this. There will in fact be an actual story. And stuff.)

The dying fire threw weak flickering light over the stone walls. At the intricately carved desk of impressive size sat a thin, silver-haired figure in a dressing gown. Albus Dumbledore pored over a heavy leather-bound book, propping it up with a blackened and withered-looking hand. Aside from the fading crackling from the hearth and the occasional whisper of a page turning, the night was quiet. Quiet and peaceful until, with a sudden motion, Albus shoved the book away. It fell onto the polished wood with a resounding thump. 

From behind him, Albus heard a ripple as the sound roused the sleeping residents of the portraits on the walls. He waited for the stirring and scattered mumbling to die out. When he was satisfied that the various Headmasters and Headmistresses had settled back into slumber, he sighed deeply to himself and opened the book once again. He flipped to pages at random and read without really reading. His eyes skimmed, processing little of what he read. Thoughts that he'd wanted to avoid, growing in their demand for his attention, mingled with the intermittent word or sentence from this page or that one. Finally his gaze came to rest on the heavy gold ring that he wore on his ruined hand. Running long fingers over the cracked black stone, he gave up on the tome entirely.

It had been a restless night, one of many he had experienced in his lifetime. Given recent events, he was sure it wouldn't be his last, not even with this newly pronounced death sentence hanging over his busy and troubled head. He wondered when he would have his last night like this one, and how he would pass it. He often read; this book had been Minerva's gift to him last Christmas. It was an overview of Wizarding innovation and industry, and how they had been shaped by the events of the past century. Although most of the events reviewed in the book were not new to him, having lived through the entire timeline that it spanned, he had still found it to be an engaging read. The perspective the author took in her writing introduced new concepts, and the reminders of small historical events often not covered in standard history texts had brought him just the right touch of nostalgia. Minerva was one of the few people who knew him well enough to bequeath to him an appropriate gift. Last Christmas Aberforth had given him what he claimed to be the perfect fertilizer for Venomous Tentacula. Despite a penchant for gardening, Albus had never had an interest in cultivating Venomous Tentacula in his office. Then again, he thought, perhaps Aberforth simply found it amusing to give his brother a large box of goat dung for Christmas.

On this particular night he had retired to his office for a long read, hoping to settle his mind enough to find a bit of rest. He planned to set out early tomorrow on another search. Before that, he would have to complete the installment of the extra security necessitated by this anticipated period of prolonged absence from the school. He wanted to have his fullest strength about him for the coming days, and that meant sleep. Sleep, for him, was often sought within the pages of books. Tonight he had been absorbed in Wizarding industrial history when he came to the section regarding the reign of Grindelwald.

As an avid reader with a predilection for historical works, Albus had learned to temper the feelings that stirred inside him at the mention of Gellert's name and the accounts of what he had done. Aspects of his reign were discussed at length in countless history texts. Often these mentions were accompanied by accounts of the world's salvation by one Albus Dumbledore, which added a whole new level to his discomfort. Ever-present in his mind was the thought that if any of these historians had known of his involvement, they might not be so keen to write from the angle of praise on his behalf. As it was, he often found it difficult to believe how easily he had escaped their scrutiny; there seemed not to be a single rumor that Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald had shared so much as a sentence in passing prior to their meeting in 1945. Even now, Albus wasn't sure he would have known how to respond to such questions. He prided himself on his ability to conjure up good answers as easily as he could Conjure a teacup, but there were questions that he had been asking himself since 1899. 

Every time he thought about it, he couldn't help feeling deeply and immensely relieved that no such questions had been voiced aloud. He knew that it was cowardly of him, but he had feared the thought of his many shames exposed to the community that held him in such high regard. He feared it still. He had, over time, tried to justify it to himself in many ways. They wouldn't understand that he hadn't wanted to believe that his best friend was capable of such atrocities. They wouldn't understand that youth and inexperience can lead to bad decisions and mistakes even in the best of people. And anyway, he was only respecting his family's desire for privacy; surely his mother and sister wouldn't have appreciated their troubled private lives documented and scrutinized by historians for generations to come. They had never liked the public eye in the slightest, and the least he could do was honor that. Pathetic and cowardly excuses, he'd accepted that by now. The truth of it, the real truth, was that he knew he wasn't the man the Wizarding community thought he was. If they knew even a fraction of the story, no one would look at him in the same way again; either they would regard him with unease and mistrust for the role he had played, or their estimation of him would drop when they found out how easily their hero had allowed himself to be deceived. And that was exactly the right phrasing: he'd allowed it. 

Coming back to himself, Albus noted that his office danced cheerfully with a bright orange glow once again. He wasn't certain exactly when that had happened amid his ruminations. Tonight's prolonged wakefulness had not passed unnoticed; at Hogwarts, it never had. Since his youth his mind had been plagued with sleeplessness, with an abundance of thoughts, ideas, worries that took root and grew, tangling in his mind like weeds while Aberforth snored softly in the darkness. As he grew older the events of his life had given shapes and names to his thoughts. He came to notice that his waking hours had increased with age. His late nights tended to be spent reading or laboring over reams of parchment with quill and ink-stained fingers. In his childhood he'd worked quietly by wandlight; now he sat at the large desk in his office, the place where, he felt, he was accomplishing his most worthwhile work. The place where he felt the closest thing to peace that he'd had since adolescence. And throughout his employment at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had never once had to rise to stoke a fire no matter what hour it was when sleep finally carried him away. 

He considered his perception heightened by far when compared to the majority of those he had known, magical and otherwise, and yet even he never caught the house-elves at their work, noticing belatedly that the fire had seemingly rekindled itself, that a set of precariously stacked books stood straight, that discarded quills had been swept away right under his somewhat damaged nose. He wondered, not for the first time, if they took it upon themselves to watch over all of the staff in their waking hours, if an elf was enduring a sleepless night on his behalf. He wanted to tell them that it wasn't necessary, that he could tend to his own fire by night, but he knew that they would be hurt and scandalized by such a suggestion. He'd come to realize, in his years of trying to reason with them, that they defined their very existence by their service. Allowing their master to take on a chore of his own would be considered shameful and disgraceful, and trying to get them to consider it in any other way would be beyond their understanding. He'd never given up on trying to help them claim some kind of life for themselves, not that that endeavor would be documented in history. A shame; it was one of his best and most worthwhile ones.

Albus Dumbledore had spent years keeping up the act of being a much better man than he was. And he knew that the history of the Wizarding world should have, perhaps not the full truth, but a fuller one than they currently knew. They should be provided with corrections to the lies that he had allowed, if for no other purpose than historical accuracy. But he was still a coward in many ways and he knew it. He hadn't told spoken out in 1945, nor anytime in the passing years. He wasn't going to do so now. And apparently Aberforth was, if not happy with that, then at least amenable, as he'd never said anything either. Out of anyone, his brother knew the most of the story that would bring Albus's stellar reputation down. Bathilda knew a little, and so did Minerva, thanks to the occasional evening spent talking over a bottle of oak-matured mead. But due to Minerva's intuition for discretion, Bathilda's increasing senility, and Aberforth's general dislike for 'nosy people', it appeared that Albus would be taking the true history to his rapidly approaching death. That didn't sit well with him, and still he wasn't going to do anything about it. And part of that was because it would require him to stir up memories he never wanted to bring near an interviewer, a reporter, or another living soul. There were things he hadn't told anyone, things that even his brother hadn't known. 

Well. One other living person did know the full story. One person who would have had every reason to to bring the icon of hope for the Wizarding community crashing down. And for reasons at which Albus could only guess, reasons known only to himself, he had, rather uncharacteristically, allowed himself to rest quietly in captivity for the better part of a century. Albus had never asked him why. He would have been able to arrange the journey to visit him, but he could never bring himself to do it. He might have had a question or two of his own to which he wasn't certain that he wanted answers. But the lack of a single rumor led him to the conclusion that, for one reason or another, his secrets were safe with one of the most powerful and ruthless villains in existence. 

Because as much as he would have liked to erase it from his history, there were in fact a great deal of secrets that he shared with the man who currently languished in the topmost cell of Nurmengard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning, neither boy was aware of the power that Gellert had over Albus.

It all began with a touch.

By then he'd known for a few years that there was something different about him. Actually, there were a lot of things about him that were different, but this one had not been so apparent, not at first.

He had never grown interested in girls in the way that his friends had. He and others dismissed this as the mind of a boy too focused on his studies to pursue romance. He hadn't thought that was a bad thing. He was eager to absorb himself in the pursuit of knowledge. He wanted to know how the world worked and what he could do with that information. He wanted to know about the impact of Wizarding history on the knowledge that the magical community possessed in the current day. He wanted to see everything from every possible viewpoint, and often spent hours sitting in the window of Gryffindor Tower, staring across the grounds and  _thinking._ He wanted to be able to say that he'd considered a thought from every single possible angle. He knew that he was the type of person to achieve great things in life. He would make his name well known far and wide across the Wizarding community. Only the connections he made and the hours he studied would achieve that for him. Teenage relationships were short-term investments that would put a drag on his long-term goals, so the pursuit of a girl would only be an unnecessary distraction. He had no interest in unnecessary distractions.

So he thought until the dreams began.

They were typical dreams for a boy of his age. Classmates with their robes slipping to the floor, pressing bare chests against him, lips whispering against his cheek, his jaw. Hands sliding down to stroke his cock, mouths soon to follow. But always their bodies were hard and lean, their voices reverberating deeply against his chest. Every time, he dreamed of boys.

Most prominently featured in early versions of the dreams was Robin Murdock, a Ravenclaw two years above him. They were acquaintances from a study group. Robin could, in the midst of a deeply serious discussion, crack a joke that left everyone in the vicinity slumped over the table, shaking with laughter. He'd keep the witty banter flowing for a few more sentences, then revert right back to studious solemnity. Albus couldn't help but admire that about him, couldn't help but aspire to achieve the same effect.

It was the first time he had sought to emulate a peer, the first time he saw something in a person that he wasn't sure he had. And he wanted it. He wanted to be like Robin Murdock, and he wanted to  _impress_  Robin Murdoch. Albus found it alarming that he didn't catch his own uncharacteristic thought process until Robin began to appear in his dreams, using that thick bold mouth of his for a lot more than philosophical debates.

For a few weeks after the first onset of these dreams, he had avoided Robin, unsure if he could look at the boy without feeling the heat rush to his face, without somehow giving something away. And as the occurrences of the dreams increased, he couldn't help giving more and more thought to the fact that they should have felt weird, unpleasant, disturbing. That wasn't how they'd felt. They'd felt-

He tried to stop thinking about it. Tried harder as he grew older and gained, by way of observation, some definitions for the phenomenon that he was experiencing.  _Depravity. Perversion. Pollution of the mind and body. Disgusting, repellant, incomprehensible, shameful._

He refused to acknowledge what that meant for him. He was a boy defined by himself, and himself alone. The relationships in which he involved himself, or lack thereof, were of little importance as defining characteristics of Albus Dumbledore. He was a brilliant, remarkable, and ambitious boy with an admirable list of achievements and a longer list of life goals, and that made him far too busy to think about romantic relationships. He was going to be a self-made man; to him, that was all that mattered.

And that worked well for him for the next few years. He put the thought from his mind and threw himself into his studies once again. He disregarded his dreams in favor of the work he put in during his waking hours, and he allowed himself to regard peers as friends and nothing more. When this strategy seemed to pan out well, he allowed himself to relax and get on with his life.

That was why, with Gellert, he never saw it coming. He saw only that although he'd had friendships, he had never connected to anyone on this level. He had never met anyone who tried to look at things, as he did, from all possible viewpoints, someone who understood the desire to expand his mind, to never cease gaining. Gellert felt the need to push boundaries, to find new ground, to firmly make a name and a place for himself in the future. And for his part, he seemed just as enthusiastic upon recognizing these characteristics in Albus. It only made sense that from that point on they would work together. Not only did they enjoy each other's company more than that of any other person they had met, they could push each other to new heights, introduce new perspectives. Each could heighten in the other the potential to break ground in the Wizarding world.

It was a late night spent by candlelight at the table in Albus's bedroom, writing down quotes from the stack of books at their feet. They were gathering evidence to support the claims they would make when their ideas shaped up into real plans. And they would need evidence; a lot of their ideas went blatantly against what had been taught in the Wizarding community for over a century. Even though he'd spent his the whole of his school years preparing for this, he could hardly believe it was actually going to happen. He would help to revolutionize the way Wizards and Muggles alike saw the world. He would oversee it in such a way that he could head off problems before they started and the Statute of Secrecy could be overturned in a safe and productive manner. He would be known as a revolutionary, and he would do it all alongside his best friend. 

"Albus," Gellert mouthed across the table, his narrow eyes widening. He beckoned Albus over with a thin, pale hand, careful not to make a sound. They had to be very quiet because Ariana was asleep on the other side of the wall. She seldom slept well and jolted awake at the slightest disturbance. If she went without adequate sleep, she'd feel tired and irritable and ill. No one wanted Ariana to be tired or irritable or ill. As it was there were the inevitable moments when her control slipped; no one liked what happened when she lost hold of it entirely. 

In addition to that, during her waking hours, even her calmer moments required a great deal of work and effort. Neither Gellert nor Albus wanted to break their focus now. If Ariana woke, that would be the end of their productivity for tonight. Gellert would have to leave. Albus would be left with the task watching his sister carefully for signs that she was beginning to slip, attempting to redirect her attention and keep her calm. He didn't want to have to deal with that, not now.

Albus bent over Gellert's scroll of parchment. A slim finger pointed to a line in the open book on his lap even as he scrawled hastily in blotchy ink. 

"I believe I've found something that even the most firm supporters of the Statute will find compelling," Gellert murmured, "Especially if we included your theory about the conscious practice of considering an issue from every possible angle." That theory was something Albus had carefully cultivated and worked upon, and the fact that Gellert considered it an important component of their work made his heart swell with pride. Gellert's wiry body was completely tense, his eyes alight and his mouth slightly open in an expression of wonder. His excitement was tangible, and though he was usually quite composed, it seemed he couldn't contain it.

"We've made a serious breakthrough tonight, Al, this will change _everything._  This gives us an actual foundation with which we can begin. We've broken real ground!" His whisper, though barely audible, still carried enough intensity that Albus's breath caught in his chest. He grabbed onto Albus's arm and Albus instinctively pressed into the touch, craving more before he realized what he was feeling. Gellert didn't notice; he'd retreated into his own racing thoughts. Albus could see each one chasing the other in Gellert's expression. He recognized that expression from his own years of ideas pouring through his head. Lost in himself, Gellert forgot to remove his hand from his friend's arm. Instead he gripped tighter. That touch was the catalyst for the impulse that followed.

Looking down at that angular face, the icy blue eyes wide with an almost childish delight as he gazed up at his friend, Albus was seized by the urge to press a kiss to Gellert's golden hair, to his parted lips. He even leaned down, just slightly. Then he caught himself and disguised the motion by turning to peer at the parchment. His heart was beginning to pound both at the realization forming in his head and the potential for Gellert's discovery.

Gellert left him with a lot to think about as he lay in his bed that night, his candle melting down to a stub and flickering out. Part of his mind was consumed with new ideas that could be applied to the theory of perspective, the one they would use to introduce new concepts to the general public. A bigger part was reliving the feeling of Gellert's slim fingers curled around his arm, the diminutive of his name, "Al". 

No one called him Al. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of it, would never have allowed his school friends or his brother to address him thusly. But he found he liked the idea that there was an expression of affection unique to his friend, the way it had sounded when it slipped out amidst his excitement. And if there was anything more than friendship in the nature of his thoughts, well, he wasn't going to let himself dwell on it. He'd slipped recently, and he scolded himself for allowing this to escape his notice. He couldn't let it get past this point. Such thoughts would only interfere with their plans and the important work they were going to accomplish. More than that, acting on such thoughts would have the potential to ruin friendships.  _Perversion,_ a voice in his head reminded him, _repellant, shameful._ He wasn't certain what he thought of those words as they might apply to his thoughts, but it didn't matter because he wasn't a romantically inclined person. He repeated this to himself, recognizing full well the tones of denial.

But he had to make it true, because when those words cycled back through his head ( _disgusting, incomprehensible, pollution of the mind and body)_ they had the power to make him question himself. He was unaccustomed to questioning himself and that made him hate it more. He didn't know how to deal with it, didn't know what to tell himself to make this all right. 

He wasn't sure about his wellness, his goodness, even his general worth anymore, and he wouldn't be able to bear the shame if he saw others looking at him in the same way. And if  _Gellert_ ever regarded him thusly...Albus didn't allow himself to think further than that. No, he decided, this had the potential to ruin everything he was working for, and it was better not to acknowledge it. Now that he had been made aware of this impulse, he would temper it down and focus on revolutionizing the interactions between the Wizarding and Muggle worlds.

He fell asleep still feeling the ghost of Gellert's hand on his forearm, the hushed, "Al" echoing in his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to make this stuff gradually less dense and more plot-heavy. It didn't work out all that great, but I'll keep trying.
> 
> Also. How is it that this site's spell-check does not recognize Gryffindor as a word?
> 
> This chapter, by the way, is not well-edited. My computer is fritzing out (again) and I want to post things quickly because I'm afraid of losing my work. I'm also a little afraid of having to take my computer in for repairs with the tab still stuck open on my Dumbledore fanfic, but what can you do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't often that Albus allowed himself to get good and drunk. But between Ariana, Aberforth, and his own inner thoughts, it had been a long day. So if Gellert came over with a few bottles of firewhiskey, he wasn't going to put up much of a protest.

It wasn't often that Albus allowed himself to get good and drunk, but it had been a long day.

It had started out well enough. He'd spent the morning with Ariana in the kitchen preparing food for the week. It helped to keep her hands busy, so he kept sliding her the vegetables to chop. Gradually, as she worked, her face took on a look of collected concentration. She paused only to braid back her long hair to keep it out of the way of the knife, and when she did so, her hands were steady and sure. He'd hoped she'd keep on like that; the night before, he'd fallen asleep before he could write down his newest ideas. If Ariana had a long grace period, he could sit with her by the hearth while she worked on her knitting or embroidery. He could compose a letter to Gellert. Maybe he could even open a new book. Since his return to Godric's Hollow, he'd had yet to open a book simply for the pleasure of reading. He missed it greatly.

Of course the peace couldn't last. He couldn't get just one damned day, could he?

They'd retired to the sitting room. Ariana sat in the armchair by the window, legs folded up beneath her. She was knitting a sweater, half-completed in her lap. Thanks to his sister's need to work, to create things at a constant and rapid rate, he and Aberforth never had a shortage of quilts, mittens, tablecloths, and sweaters. When she really immersed herself in her craftsmanship, it seemed to take her away from the world, somewhere peaceful. If she stayed there long enough, he could get a lot done. That would give his own mind some peace.

He'd just left her for a couple seconds to search for a new ink bottle. He'd misplaced it, and while he could have Summoned it, there was the possibility that objects hurtling through the air without warning would startle his sister. It was hard to know exactly what would set her off. The day before he'd been cleaning and he'd smashed a jar with a crash, sending a spray of glass across the floor. Without so much as a blink, she'd knelt to sweep the shards into a pile for him to repair. And yet an unfamiliar knock on the front door often sent her into a tailspin. Maybe it was because she knew that meant outsiders. Even Gellert didn't knock on the door. By now he simply let himself in.

Albus wasn't entirely certain what went on in her head most of the time. Sometimes she tried to talk or to signal to him with her hands, but usually she'd stop, her eyes clouding with frustration and confusion, and shake her head. He'd stopped asking her to try and explain herself. For one reason or another, her ability to communicate, her capacity for translating herself into speech, had tangled and splintered. Frustrating her only made it worse. Whoever Ariana Dumbledore was, a great part of her was lost to the world. Even he and Aberforth could never fully know her.

He didn't know what had set her off today. He'd left the room and she'd given no sign that she was aware of his presence or lack thereof. Upon his return he found her sitting rigid, staring up at the mantlepiece. Tremors ran through her body. The half-completed sweater lay crumpled on the floor.

He froze. If he was absolutely still and silent, if he didn't startle her, she might be able to pull herself out of it. She'd force it back down, snatch up her needles, and knit with a fury until the storm had passed. He'd seen her do it before. But the pictures on the mantlepiece were rattling now, their occupants voicing complaints as they bumped into their frames.

Ariana's body seized, and she clenched her fists, trying to make it stop, but it only caused a picture to crack. Albus rushed to try and help her.

"Ana. Try to breathe for me, just once. Breathe in. Ana, breathe." He had to keep his voice calm. Reacting would only rile her more, would only feed into this. He tried to push her knitting needles into her hands, but she only shoved him aside. Ariana was gone, replaced by a mindless creature born of pain and panic. She was panting, eyes wide, and she slapped away his hands with her own. Even after he'd pulled back she continued frantically batting and swiping at air. Then, with a shriek, she threw herself violently to the floor. The whole room began to vibrate, walls creaking ominously.

Albus shook his wand from his sleeve and attempted to shield the room and contain the power emanating from his sister. The hopelessness of that endeavor was evidenced when various items shattered and the shards began to fly. Unseen forces whipped them through the air. It was like standing in a miniature hurricane. He gave up on the room and crouched over his sister with his wand raised, shielding them both from the debris and howling winds. The whole time he kept talking to her, unsure if she had gone to a place beyond hearing.

"Ariana, you're alright. You're alright now. You've just got to breathe for me, can you do that-" he was interrupted by the crash of the armchair turning over, but continued, "Can you hear me? You'll be alright." She gave no response, but continued pressing her body to the floor, trembling violently. Finally the winds began to die out, broken fragments settling to the floor. Albus surveyed the damage. A couple of dents and some deep cracks in the walls, a tapestry completely gone, probably blown into another room. It wasn't anything that he wouldn't be able to fix.

Ariana gasped and wheezed on the floor. When he was certain that he could touch her, he began to rub her back. She tensed, then relaxed into the touch as he tried to talk her back into the world.

He wasn't sure which was worse, the look on her face when she was gone or the clouded darkness that her eyes were taking on as she began to come back to herself. He didn't know if she could remember what she'd done, but the wreckage spoke for itself. It took several shuddering breaths before she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the floor, her voice quiet and broken, "I tried, I'm sorry."

"I know, Ana. It's all right." She shook her head slightly and squeezed her eyes shut.

At that moment, the front door slammed and Aberforth appeared, his hair uncombed, his robes covered in dirt. He took in the scene and, without a word, strode over to the pair of them. He sat down on the floor and leaned casually against the overturned armchair. Ariana turned her head toward him and a look passed between the two.

"You look like hell, love," he said gently, "but you're alright."

Ariana pressed her head against his knee as he continued to soothe her. "You alright, now? Yeah, it'll be alright."

Albus began repairing the room with his wand, melting cracks together and sending objects to their proper places, careful to direct them slowly so that his sister wouldn't be startled again. Aberforth coaxed Ariana into a sitting position, wrapping an arm around her and guiding her head to his shoulder. She flinched when he held up his wand.

"Shh, it's only water.  _Aguamenti._  Only water. You should drink, Ana." She paused at the trickle over her chin, then stuck out her tongue and lapped at it like a cat. 

"More?" Aberforth murmured, " _Aguamenti."_  

By the time the room had been set to rights (all but the overturned armchair against which Aberforth and Ariana were settled) Ariana had relaxed visibly and her eyes were beginning to fall shut. She'd exhausted herself completely. Over her head, Aberforth's eyes met Albus's. 

"What happened? And what do we have to eat?"

Albus Summoned a few cuts of ham and bread from the kitchen, arranged them into sandwiches in midair, and sent them across the room. They hovered in front of his brother, who took a bite. "Mm. God, I was starving. So what happened with her?"

"I'm not sure. When I came in, she was-I was out of the room for a _minute_ ," he emphasized, correctly interpreting the look Aberforth gave him, "And she was fine when I left."

Aberforth said nothing, which only increased Albus's sense that he was being made to feel guilty. He wanted to defend himself, but couldn't, because that conversation might get heated and Ariana didn't like it when they fought.

Aberforth's gaze fell on the half-finished scroll on the coffee table, now splattered with ink from when the bottle had been upended. "That a letter for Gellert?"

Albus thought his brother was giving him a rather knowing look, and didn't like it. 

"Yes," he answered shortly, Summoning the parchment and ink to his hand. As he turned to leave he felt his Aberforth's gaze on his back. He'd given people the same piercing stare when he thought that they were hiding something, just to see if they would squirm. He could learn a lot about a person that way. It occurred to him that he really didn't like it when that stare was turned on him. Only siblings, he thought, could have that affect on one another. Without looking back, he left the room.

Upstairs, laboring over a fresh scroll of parchment, he found he couldn't finish the letter in the same tones of enthusiasm with which he'd started it. The events of the day had taken the wind out of his sails, even for this. He concluded his writing with an invitation to come over that night. Even if he didn't feel like working, his friend's company would reinvigorate him. He craved the presence of someone other than his brother and sister today.

After he sent Gideon out the window with his letter, he settled back on his bed to think. He'd wanted to tell Aberforth that today's meltdown hadn't been his fault, even though Aberforth never said that it had been. He wanted to tell his brother that he was doing his best, that he needed to get his work done. That they couldn't keep existing like this. He had to find a long-term solution for their situation. And _that's_ what he and Gellert were working on. Not that it was only for the Dumbledore family, but if he ever felt too discouraged, he could think about solving their lifelong predicament and it would keep him going.

Some time later, Gideon soared through the open window and settled on Albus's chest. He stroked the owl's feathers as he unrolled Gellert's reply. There were additions and reflections in response to the ideas he'd proposed, and he'd accepted Albus's invitation. He'd arrive at nine. Albus didn't know if he could have Ariana asleep by then, but Aberforth was always willing to stay with her. 

Albus spent the rest of the day pacing in his room, talking to himself and feeding Owl Treats to Gideon and Juleth. If he paused, he could hear Aberforth persuading Ariana to eat one of the ham sandwiches. It sounded like slow going. Outbursts like today's seemed to make her feel ill. He knew he should be down there trying to see if he could help, but sometimes it all made him want to  _scream._ Ariana wasn't the only one with something trapped inside her. 

Unlike his sister, Albus knew how to direct his potential on his own so that it didn't get bottled up. But, stuck day after day in the house that had felt increasingly like a prison for the Dumbledore children, he wasn't achieving or creating at a fast enough rate. On occasion it made him too frustrated to go deal with his sister. At some point he would just begin to howl from the futility of it all. He  _would,_ and God only knew what Ariana would do then.

Besides, if he was honest, Aberforth tended to have more luck with her when she was like this.

He was in a rather foul mood. He wanted to work, but found himself incapable of focusing on any one thing. Eventually, fed up with life in general, he threw an ink bottle across the room and snapped his quill. He spent the next several minutes siphoning the ink off the wall and back into the bottle.  Then he went back downstairs and joined his brother and sister in their knitting. 

Both of the boys could knit simple patterns, though neither came close to Ariana's skill. During one of her most lucid moments, she had wanted to teach them how to do it, and whenever she sought to engage in any sort of activity with her brothers, neither could refuse her. It was rare enough that she was capable of interacting as a sister. Rarer still when she was able to communicate clearly, to bond.

Ariana's face was locked into a frown of deep concentration and her fingers worked in rapid jerky motions. That meant there was something chaotic she was trying to keep back. Albus hoped it would pass without incident. 

If only they could find a way to direct the magic. Once she'd accidentally caused a rosebush to bloom with flowers the size of Quaffles, and another time she'd sprayed colored jets of water across the kitchen floor. Those incidents had been fairly harmless. They'd tried to teach her to replicate those results, but to no avail. It seemed that Ariana simply had no control over the direction her magic would take, and so her only option was to try and hold it back entirely.

The boys ate dinner without trying to get more food into Ariana. They both knew what her expression meant, and neither wanted to break her focus. They watched her knit row upon row. She was making a scarf as wide as a blanket that lengthened so rapidly Albus wondered if some of her magic was channelling itself into the yarn. 

"Perhaps it would do for a giant," he said thoughtfully.

"Wha?" Aberforth asked around a mouthful of beans.

"Some wizards have found that giants respond well to gifts," he explained, "I thought that scarf might fit a giant. Many of their tribes have been forced to move to colder climates. They don't care for that, but perhaps there'd be less trouble if they were presented with more offerings of goodwill. That's seemed to yield promising results for the few wizards who've bothered to try."

Aberforth thought for a minute. "Thing is, it's only an idiot who'll go playing with giants to see if they want presents. But, you know, if you're right, I think we've found her a job."

Though she hadn't seemed to be paying them any attention, a small smile formed on Ariana's face at that.

"You joke, but you could be right," Albus mused, "But then, from what I understand of giants, they're as likely to use a scarf for strangling one another as for keeping warm."

"Killjoy," Ariana murmured without looking up or breaking her pace. Aberforth laughed.

"That's what happens when you spend all day with your face pressed to a book. That would have that effect, don't you think, Ana?"

She gave a small nod and a smile, but then, without explanation, her face went blank. She retreated back into her own world, knitting all the more frantically. Neither boy spoke again, and for the rest of the night they tiptoed around their sister. She stayed in her chair for hours, the scarf creeping further and further across the floor. Albus and Aberforth didn't try to get her to go to bed. It wouldn't be the first time she'd fallen asleep knitting. By now she could do it by night as well as day, working expertly by feel rather than sight.

As nine o'clock approached, Albus took up a post by the door. When Gellert appeared, he immediately pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Gellert nodded understanding and carefully eased the door shut behind him. They slipped through the sitting room, Gellert acknowledging Aberforth with a cordial nod. Then they crept upstairs. 

Albus waved his wand to light the candles in his room. "We can speak freely tonight. If she falls asleep down there she won't be on the other side of this wall."

Gellert deposited his bag on the table and Albus distinctly heard the clinking of bottles. "You brought Butterbeer?"

"Better," Gellert replied. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight as he pulled out a bottle. Albus recognized the label, though he rarely touched firewhiskey. He'd seen friends sneaking the bottles into Hogwarts after visits to Hogsmeade, but he personally found it counterproductive to drink himself into a stupor. His mind craved constant stimulation; drinking heavily made that impossible.

"Did those, by any chance, come from Bathilda's cabinet?"

"She won't miss them." Gellert smiled. "She received plenty for her birthday. Enough to put a dragon to sleep." 

Albus reached for the bottle, braced himself, and took a gulp. The stuff burned hotter, more bitter than anything else he'd chanced to taste, and it was a conscious effort not to choke or cough. He could swear he felt smoke in his lungs and forced himself to breathe.  But then it left him feeling stronger, more assured, as if he carried candlelight within his chest. He found that the drink was scorching away the taste of today's events, and took another sip.

"I don't usually like firewhiskey," he told Gellert, "but at this moment you've no idea how welcome this is."

Gellert grinned and pulled out a bottle for himself. "I don't drink it much either, but we've come so far. We have worked _tirelessly_ , haven't we?"

"We have."

"So we've earned it, haven't we? Go on, get some more of that right now." 

Albus saluted, making Gellert huff out a laugh, and tilted the bottle back to his mouth. The liquid flame was an acquired taste. He found he liked it more and more with each sip. And really, he'd put in so much work and suffered so many daily ordeals. There should be times like this, he thought, times where one could drink and laugh with friends and forget their cares. 

And he really did have so many cares, so many thoughts vying for his constant attention and effort. Every hour of every day. So if, for one night, Gellert wanted to give him firewhiskey and just _talk_ for a bit, he wasn't going to put up much of a protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene will be continued into the next chapter. I'm just posting quickly so that I don't lose too much if my computer decides to crap out on me again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunkenness can lead to impulsive decisions. Drunkenness with friends can lead to revelations of repressed truths. 
> 
> Or, the course of history was set by firewhiskey.

An hour later, Albus and Gellert had abandoned their work entirely. Well, except for talking. They were always talking.

But drunkenness had dulled their focus. Gellert's scrawl, shaky and rushed at its best, had become increasingly illegible. Their conversational exchanges had devolved into little more than meaningless banter. And then, somehow, Albus and Gellert had ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against each other and shaking with laughter.

Silent laughter, of course. Even in a deep haze of drunkenness, Albus couldn't allow himself to forget the consequences of letting a single moment get away from him. But, with a good portion of his bottle flowing through his veins, that didn't have to matter, because he was laughing as he hadn't laughed in...in Merlin only  _knew_ how long.

He hadn't even realized that this was missing from his life. So much else had absorbed all of his time. 

Drunkenness was like having his head full of water. The weight of his worries floated up for a while and allowed him to  _live._ He couldn't stop marveling at the feeling.

That, and the change that had come over his friend. Usually Gellert was notably poised, controlled, and driven by some kind of fierce inner light. Now, however, he was sitting on Albus's floor, sides heaving, slumping a little to one side every now and then before pulling himself straight.

Gellert's demeanor, his poise and dignity and vehement dedication to his system of beliefs, was a significant part of the draw that Albus felt toward him. But this...seeing him like this, with his guard down, his dignity abandoned in favor of fully enjoying the moment...well, Albus knew they'd reached a new level in their friendship.

"You know what's just occurred to me?" Gellert sat forward as if what he had to say was of utmost importance, but then followed with, "Your school had different...what was it, houses? That's  _strange,_ isn't it?"

"What's strange about that? Loads of boarding schools are divided by House."

"I'd never heard of that. It must be an England thing." He slumped back down, frowning. "But it's  _weird_ because most schools, and Durmstrang does this too, they attempt to instill a strong sense of loyalty to the school in the scudents. Students," he corrected himself, shaking his head at his drunken slip. "Hogwarts doesn't do that because each student is focusing more on their own  _house._ Your school...it's  _divided._ " He seemed to be trying to find the words to better explain his point, but then he shook his head. 

"Maybe they have it right, though, your Hogwarts." he said in a low voice, "No, not right, but more accurately...calibrated...to the world for which education is supposed to prepare us. Because the Houses are based off personality traits, correct? Each is a different  _idea_ system. I'd rather dedicate myself to a system with with-" He shook his head again. He sounded as though his tongue had grown too heavy. "-with  _which_ I agreed, than to a large place full of people all going in different directions, mentally. Especially a bloody _school._ What is the _point_ of instilling loyalty in _that_? School is  _stupid._ "

"Why do you say that?" asked Albus, taken aback, "That sounds more like something my brother would say."

"You misunderstand my meaning." He tripped up a bit on all the ' _M'_ words, but pressed on, and  _there_ it was. _There_ was that lofty poise of his, that fiercely  _driven_ quality to his tone. " _Learning_ isn't stupid. Developing one's sense of self...and one's goals for the future...that is not stupid. And that's what school's supposed to _be,_ but it's only a small percentage of what it really  _is._ School is the basing of societal status on meaningless constructs and setting boundaries on methods of learning. School is about reinforcing those things and building upon them."

"Social constructs do exist at Hogwarts," Albus said thoughtfully, "It took so much time and effort to build a reputation beyond my father's arrest. But," he added, "Somehow most students do end up fairly loyal to the school, anyway. I don't know how."

"Are you?" 

It was hard to choose his words carefully whilst flat-out drunk. "Not above all else," he managed.

"And that would be...blindly ridiculous!" Gellert said with an air of triumph, "To pledge oneself entirely to one's _school_ , but that was the idea taught at Durmstrang."

Albus drank another burning sip to wash down that revelation, thinking to himself that it probably provided some sort of insight, but that was something he'd consider at another time. 

"That's something we should actively seek to change. Once we've become more influential. All insignificant bases for social constructs should be discredited."

"And we'll get there. But one problem at a time, all right?" Albus's voice was fading; he was growing  _very_ sleepy. "I've noticed that too much change at once frightens people. They'll be less likely to give it a chance if they feel overwhelmed."

"Now that I think on it, you're likely right," Gellert murmured.

From there the conversation faded into less serious topics. Neither of them was capable of focusing for too long on one train of thought.

Albus didn't even know what had triggered the impulse this time. Gellert had turned to look at him, but Gellert had looked at him before. It was the damned firewhiskey, dropping his guard. He didn't stop himself from letting his head lean forward. Without thinking about what he was doing, he pressed his mouth to Gellert's.

The kiss was clumsy, because Albus was drunk and had never kissed anyone before and because, he noticed belatedly, it was entirely one-sided. Gellert was pulling away.

Albus's heart dropped into his stomach. He desperately searched his friend's face for anything that would redeem this moment. Instead there was surprise and a bit of shock.

Albus had never seen shock on Gellert's face before. He felt as though his insides were dissolving. His very being melting like hot wax. 

He fumbled for the right words, an explanation. "I'm sorry, I-"

But Gellert now looked amused. He waved away Albus's apology with the hand that wasn't holding the bottle.

"S'all right. You really haven't had much experience with the strong stuff, have you?" He gestured with his firewhiskey for emphasis, then took a sip, nonchalantly, as if nothing significant had happened. And perhaps for him, it hadn't. "You must be more careful. It really can make a person act...well." He waved the bottle again, as if that was an adequate explanation.

And neither of them mentioned it after that. Albus didn't want to think about what he had done (what he _would_ have done if Gellert had been just a little bit slower to stop him) and apparently to Gellert, what had happened was no more than the potential start of future jokes, the result of his friend's head going a little funny after too much firewhiskey. Albus was only too eager to let him think so, even if it did hurt in a strange way, in the parts of his mind the alcohol had not been able to reach.

Later that night, on his way to being sucked down into a heavy sleep, he had only a little time to berate himself for letting his guard that far down. Then he was gone far beyond dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a long story, and updates will occur sporadically, especially since I'll be busy with a new semester is starting. However I haven't abandoned this work.

**Author's Note:**

> While J.K. Rowling has stated that young Albus Dumbledore loved Gellert Grindelwald, it isn't confirmed whether or not Grindelwald shared those feelings or that anything beyond a platonic relationship ever came of them. Rowling has said that this is why Dumbledore was so hesitant to open his eyes to the fact that Grindelwald's intentions were less than benevolent, and contributed to his reluctance to challenge him as he rose in power.
> 
> I'm not fully sure yet what direction this story will take or if the title will still fit, but if any movie-only fans are reading this, "For the Greater Good" was Grindelwald's slogan in the books. It was propaganda that he used to justify his actions, and Dumbledore gave him the idea.
> 
> Just as a side note, Venomous Tentacula are biting plants. They were mentioned only once or twice in the books, but they're a very prevalent challenge in many of the early Harry Potter video games. They're annoying in the extreme. I'm quite fond of them, and if I existed in the Harry Potter universe, I'm sure I would have one.
> 
> I have not made many attempts at fic writing, and this is my first time writing after a long period of weird personal stuff happening in my life. My skills feel rusty, but I hope it's good anyway. If not, I'm sure I'll improve with practice.


End file.
